


A Matter of Self-Importance

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Deepthroating, Derogatory Language, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Facials, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 05:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: Yagami can certainly hold his own, and he can make the effort to at least try and fight Kuroiwa off. But he relented so quickly—a swing of the blackjack and he’s suddenly on his knees. He feels sick with humiliation, sick at himself for being so much of a whore that he’ll let someone like Kuroiwa, repugnant in all ways, stick his cock in his mouth.Because hedoeslike it.
Relationships: Kuroiwa Mitsuru/Yagami Takayuki
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	A Matter of Self-Importance

He passes his gloved palms over Yagami’s throat, as if encouraging him to swallow, tracing the outline that bulges there in that honeyed, glowing skin, sweet and tightly corded with strain. There’s anger in Yagami’s eyes that make those pupils go pinhole tight and shineless.

Kuroiwa rocks his hips forward in jerky, unrhythmic thrusts. It’s all too brutal and random for Yagami to get any sort of pacing in sucking him off, and that’s the point. Kuroiwa has no intentions on making anything easy for the detective, who’s donning a swollen-shut eye and a pair of black boxer-briefs and nothing else. The blackjack is still tucked into Kuroiwa’s waistband, a present reminder as he face-fucks Yagami, his hip brushing against his temple. The weapon makes a slight dent in his immaculate suit, but that’s not the only thing disrupting the usual image of decency.

Kuroiwa’s cock is average, really, but it still looks good sticking out of his trousers, hardened and curved and pressing up against Yagami’s lips that are made for sucking dick, that look full and plump as some fresh-to-burst berry. His cock is pale, sort of on the slimmer side, but pretty—and his pubes are neat and well-kept, just like the rest of him. The pink head of his penis sits half-encased in sensitive foreskin, where Yagami’s tongue travels along per his request when he pulls out of the tight sheath of his throat.

It’s easy to make men obedient whenever you have power (and insanity) loaded in those marble black eyes of yours.

Even defiant shits like Yagami, who have to be warned that if he leaves a ring of teeth marks on the skin of his cock, that the blackjack will soon be replaced with a gun, and he’ll have no problem jutting it up against his eye, which is leaking a steady stream of tears, lids puffy and red as a girl’s pussy.

“That’s a good pig,” Kuroiwa sighs, almost lovingly. His voice is all sharp edges and cruelty, mania brimming behind the cool, steady tone of his professional voice. But as he fucks his cock into Yagami’s mouth, a silky tongue cushioning the underside as Yagami wretches up frothing globs of spit, his voice takes on this perverted, breathy note. It’s almost patronizing, the way someone might talk to a puppy. Or a girl in porn.

“You look so much better like this. You know, I didn’t get it before. Everyone seems to love you, even though you’re just an obnoxious chain-smoking piece of shit, sticking his nose where it shouldn’t be. But if you’re _this_ eager to go down on people, I’d be willing to bet half of Kamurocho’s affectionate towards you because you’re pretty practiced at giving head—and for free, too. I suppose you really are worth something after all. Little in value, but functional, yes?”

Kuroiwa pulls out abruptly and slaps the curve of his erection against Yagami’s cheek. He smirks as Yagami takes in sputtering gasps, saliva leaking from his mouth, his shoulders shaking as his body eats up a gag. “I d—didn’t—” he coughs, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm as he settles himself on the other. He shivers a little. His body aches almost as bad as his throat does, “I wasn’t eager to go down on you, you _made_ me.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves, Yagami,” Kuroiwa says, rubbing his cock against his cheek almost thoughtlessly, the way someone might pace or flex their knuckles. A line of slimy pre-cum slicks over his skin, grossly warm. Yagami wants to vomit. “If you wanted to, you could easily bite my cock off, kick my ass—or try to. But you like it. You’re so used to this. Being on your knees, sucking off a superior. Ah—it’s second nature to you, having your throat full of cock.”

There’s something nauseating in how demeaning it all is. It’s not in the fact that Kuroiwa is seemingly digging in at him for liking men—that’d be quite hypocritical, given that he’s the one with his dick out, staring at Yagami like he’s a slab of Kobe beef—but perhaps it’s the dig at his lack of willpower.

He’s right. Yagami can certainly hold his own, and he can make the effort to at least try and fight Kuroiwa off. But he relented so quickly—a swing of the blackjack and he’s suddenly on his knees. He feels sick with humiliation, sick at himself for being so much of a whore that he’ll let someone like Kuroiwa, repugnant in all ways, stick his cock in his mouth.

Because he _does_ like it.

So instead of arguing, instead of producing defenses that’ll undoubtedly get challenged (he’ll save that for the court, thank you very much), Yagami simply sits back up, rests his hands on his thighs, and opens his mouth again. Lets his tongue lewdly loll out and rest over his row of shiny bottom teeth that’d be whiter from care if not so stained by nicotine.

Kuroiwa seems to notice this. He reaches in his pocket, and Yagami almost winces when he sees that it’s on the side of the blackjack. Instead, he harvests a pack of cigarettes, a Chinese brand that Yagami can’t read, in a velvety red pack. Strong stuff, it seems, as the aroma hits Yagami’s nose when Kuroiwa lights it.

“Didn’t think you’d smoke,” Yagami says, mouthing at the side of his slender cock, lapping at the soft flesh over his sack.

“Not often. But _you_ do. And it seems like I should treat you, for being such a good pig,” he sighs, words slightly muffled around where the cigarette is placed between feverish, pink lips, dappled with spit. His hands are too busy winding themselves back into Yagami’s unruly curls, yanking him forward, plunging his cock back into his throat, so warm and inviting. As good as a needy wife’s cunt, Kuroiwa thinks.

The sounds that Yagami makes are embarrassingly sloppy. He wonders if the people walking right outside of this shitty little repurposed office building on the east side of Kamurocho can hear the noise of his throat wetly working around the intrusion. He hates himself, and he hates Kuroiwa. Even Hamura is preferable to this. Hamura has a sense of humanity, a yakuza honor code that flickers persistently behind that guise of bravado sometimes. Kuroiwa is nothing but spite, and disgust, watching him with those dead doll eyes, a cigarette burning, pungent and smelling of cinnamon, between his lips.

And here he is, letting him.

Here he is, moaning around him, turning his unbruised eye up to show Kuroiwa he’s indeed submissive.

Here he is, loosening his throat and letting Kuroiwa fuck his face without using his teeth, even swiping his tongue along the shaft because this is second nature to a slut like him.

Here he is, suckling at the head like he can’t get enough as Kuroiwa pulls out.

He can’t begin to imagine how pathetic he must look when he whines eagerly as Kuroiwa starts jacking himself off, gloved hand working the spit-wet cock with an almost-squeaky sound, the combined friction sounding oddly hygienic. How fitting for someone as medicinal but brutal as a surgeon.

Yagami spreads his thighs, arches his back with his hands tucked closely together in front of his crotch. Sticks his tongue out with a neediness that most prostitutes charge extra to fake.

“Ah, that’s it. Show me that whore mouth. You want it so bad, huh? Want my cum all over your face? Stupid slut, aren’t you?” Kuroiwa hisses.

He barely makes a sound when he cums, just grits his teeth and exhales sharply though his nose, silverish clouds of nicotine coming out of his flaring nostrils at the same time that his semen shoots over Yagami’s wet tongue, painting his face, his cheek, stringing across his lips.

“That’s it. You look good now,” Kuroiwa hums, “First time I’ve looked at your face and seen it as anything other than repugnant.”

“Fuck you.”

“Still have an attitude, though,” he muses, and he lifts his cigarette to his lips. Then stops, considers it. Yagami’s eyes are downcast, and he’s wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hands. Shaking like a leaf, his thighs close together around an erection that’s tenting his underwear.

“Let me see that tongue again, piggy,” he mumbles.

“Stop calling me that. I’m not the cop here.”

Kuroiwa seizes him by the jaw and shakes him. His cock is softening between his legs rapidly, and the distaste is already starting to grow once more. As if a blowjob would really staunch out his hatred for Yagami.

“Let me. See. Your. Tongue.”

Yagami lets it fall out of his mouth, too obedient for his own good. If he didn’t have an erection, he would have spit at him instead. But he’s still a slave to his impulses, his desires. And he desires making Kuroiwa hot under that starched, stupid collar.

What cop wears a suit and gloves that often?

_ Self-important prick._

Before Yagami can realize his mistake, Kuroiwa has already put the cigarette out on his tongue, a slight sizzle of a burn sounding before the saliva quickly puts out the burning-red end. Yagami winces, jerks back, and spits out the ash that litters his mouth. Heaves up another cough.

As if the sore throat wasn’t enough.

He whines, hunched over, spitting out foul-tasting tar and particles of grey. Kuroiwa laughs at him, watches his erection soften considerably.

Good. This is for his pleasure only.

He tucks himself into his pants and studies Yagami, sprawled there on the ground, this tan and powerful Adonis reduced to some half-undressed slut spitting up the remains of his cigarette, semen drying on his face, an untouched hard-on still present (if less interested now) in his underwear. All traces of dignity gone. All boyish heroism tapped out whenever Kuroiwa does so little as stick his dick in his face.

“Good lesson, wasn’t it?” Kuroiwa asks, toeing at the underside of a bruised thigh with his polished shoe, “I should teach a course. Who next? What about that cute lawyer friend of yours… Hoshino, yes?”

“If you touch him—I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’m _shaking_.”

Kuroiwa turns to the door, and flicks off the lights, “Clean up your mess before you leave, would you?”

**Author's Note:**

> [here's my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


End file.
